Bridge to a Distant Star

by Carolyn Williford

  “If he should wake and complain about pain, call us right away. Okay, I think that’s it for now.” Her pocket’s contents—pens, hemostat scissors, other unknown small items—made a unique clicking sound as she hurriedly walked back down the hall toward the nurses’ station.

  Fran looked down and saw Charlie’s eyes staring into hers.

  “Mom?” His pupils were dilated, hazy. She watched them grow smaller as he focused on her face.

  She searched for his hand, taking it gently between her own, mindful of the attached IV. Forced a reassuring smile. “Oh, love. How are you?”

  “Leg hurts.”

  “The nurse just left, but I’ll get her back here immediately.”

  His eyelids were already getting heavy, closing slowly. Fluttering back open as he struggled to stay awake before closing again. “Nah, don’t bother. I think I’m gonna …” he yawned, slurring his words now, “just go back to sleep.” He smiled, mumbling just before he nodded off, “Whatever. They’re givin’ me. Good stuff.”

  Fran reached up to smooth back the curls from his forehead, luxuriating in the very feel of him … his skin, hair, hands. She traced the small scar on the back of his hand with her thumb—a reminder of Bradley’s puppyhood and his razor-sharp teeth. Noted the cowlick on the right side of his forehead—which he’d had from birth, and that she recalled tenderly tracing her fingers over the very first time she’d held him. She allowed her gaze to roam over every inch of her son, taking in and cherishing all the boyish angles and bruises and scars, still-present baby fat amid the muscle.

  She still felt stabs of pain when she recalled the miscarriages—a total of three, before Charlie was born. Two babies were far enough along to be identified as girls—a daughter had been the longing of her heart. After Charlie arrived and she could no longer get pregnant, Fran remembered wondering if she’d regret having only a boy. Her eyes welled with tears. Regret? she thought, and then smiled. Never. Not once.

  And then, And he’s still with us. With me, she reassured herself. She realized anew that Charlie’s birth had been a miraculous gift after the miscarriages. And his presence with her tonight was a gift from God again. A tear dropped onto Charlie’s arm as she whispered, “Thank you, God. Thank you for my son.”

  Charlie’s eyes flitted back open. “Mom?”

  “Oh, love. Sorry I woke you.”

  He yawned. “Nah, not you. It was the sky.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I saw the sky—all these stars. It was so bright because the sky was full of them.”

  Taken back by his nonsensical explanation, Fran gave him a puzzled look.

  “They were all so clear. Usually most’re hard to see.”

  “How so?”

  “You know, Mom. The dimmest ones. When you try to see them, they just kinda … disappear.” His voice sounded raspy. His reasoning was drug-affected. But it was evident that he’d seen and experienced something.

  Sensing it was important to Charlie, Fran wanted to understand. “I think I know what you mean. You’re talking about how stars seem to twinkle—an effect from their being so far away? Is that it?”

  Charlie yawned. “Not like that … in my dream. Really … cool.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could look right at them, Mom, and really see them. So clear, I wanted to touch … almost could.” He blinked a couple times, an attempt to keep himself awake. “Wish you could’ve seen them too.” His voice grew softer, his words further apart again.

  “Funny, I have this vague memory of your grandmother talking about that. It was something about those who look at stars and see them clearly are more able to—what was it? I think she said it meant you were more sensitive. To God.”

  “How old were you?” Charlie asked.

  “Oh, I think around ten or so. I do clearly recall that we were on the back porch, looking up on this amazingly clear night. I think it was cold. Must’ve been winter, I imagine? Or fall. But I stared and stared at those stars, trying to see them like Mother said.”

  Charlie yawned again, closed his eyes, conceding to sleep. “Could you?”

  “No, I couldn’t. At least, not the way she described it. And I remember feeling disappointed.” Charlie’s breathing was steady and even. She doubted he’d heard her. “Go back to sleep now, okay? Get some rest.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ll see … more stars.”

  Fran kissed him tenderly on the forehead. “I hope so, love. I really do.”

  The next two days were a blur for Fran. Her whole world had shrunk to the confines of the hospital walls. It was where she slept, showered, ate, and cared for Charlie however she could, day and night. Her bed was a couch she made up every evening, falling onto it totally spent—yet still listening for Charlie’s every move. Ready to jump up and run to his side at the slightest sigh or groan or whisper of “Mom?”

  Charles went to the hospital as much as he could, between putting in hours at work and caring for the necessities at home. He disliked not being there all the time, but his practical side knew it wasn’t feasible. There simply wasn’t enough space for three of them in the hospital room; he couldn’t justify being there twenty-four hours and there wasn’t the need. But though he wasn’t there physically, his heart and thoughts constantly were.

  He attempted to time his morning visit with the doctors’ rounds, judging it important to hear firsthand how Charlie was progressing, how the stump was healing. They hadn’t yet offered information on Charlie’s future treatment or his prognosis—and he and Fran hadn’t asked. Charles knew instinctively that Fran wasn’t ready. She appeared too tenuous for that discussion, and he was afraid more bad news would push her past what she could endure. He’d tried to catch Dr. Chang alone for a one-on-one discussion but hadn’t succeeded.

  The first two days after surgery, Charlie had been asleep more than he was awake. When he was conscious, he was barely communicable—due to high doses of pain medicine. The doctors explained it was best for Charlie to get through those first few days in a semiconscious state. Though Charles was intent on telling Charlie about his amputation and was frustrated with the delay, the doctors and nurses insisted the discussion could wait.

  But it was torture for Charles. For many reasons.

  “He’s got to know. Now,” Charles had told Fran the morning after surgery.

  “For heaven’s sake, why, Charles? Why the urgency?”

  “Because he can’t mentally or emotionally defeat the cancer if he doesn’t know it’s there.”

  Fran moved to her son’s bedside, stared at his peacefully sleeping face. “The time will come, Charles. But not yet. He’s not even coherent, for crying out loud.”

  Charles whispered through gritted teeth, “You’re being overly protective, Fran. Let him be a man for once, will you? Let go so Charlie can do what he needs to do.”

  “He’s not a man, Charles. He’s a boy,” Fran hissed back. She groped for Charlie’s hand, threatening to disturb his sleep. She moved unconsciously, only cognizant of the battle that had seemingly raged between her and Charles since the first miscarriage.

  She turned deliberately toward Charlie, away from her husband. “We’re setting up Charlie to be in the middle of this impasse between us. We can’t be on opposite sides for this … this fight … as you’re so prone to term it, Charles. Don’t you see? Charlie will lose if we’re not both on the same side. And if Charlie loses, that means—that means—”

  A nurse pushed against the door, giving it a desultory knock, knock as she breezed in. “Time to check Charlie’s bandage. I’ll just be a minute.” Efficient, operating from a checklist including far too many duties, the nurse hadn’t noticed the tension in the room, the conversation she’d interrupted.

  And once interrupted, it was easier to put aside. To delay the inevitable battle
… until the next day or the next.

  Until the third morning after his surgery, when Charlie awoke early. Before Fran was even out of her makeshift bed, she heard, spoken with a noticeably clearer voice, “Mornin’, Mom.”

  Fran lifted a groggy head from the pillow, trying to assess if she’d heard correctly. “Charlie?” Hoping to clear her vision, she rubbed sleep-deprived eyes. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I mean, I still feel kinda loopy. But I’m starved, Mom. My tummy’s growling.” With effort, Charlie lifted his head to watch his mom climb out of bed, reach for her robe. “How much longer till I get some breakfast around here anyway?”

  Fran moved to him as fast as she could, leaning over to kiss his forehead, caress his hair. “Just as soon as I can get them to bring you something. I’m thrilled to hear you’re hungry.”

  Charlie grinned up at her. “French toast sounds good. And eggs. Bacon, too. Gosh, it seems like years since I’ve eaten.”

  She chuckled at him, but shook her head. Dreading the disappointment she’d cause as the messenger of bad news. “Don’t you remember? You’re on a restricted diet.” Seeing the immediate dismay that came over Charlie’s features, she hurried to add, “But maybe you can eat a little more today.” He brightened a bit, confident in his mom’s ability to bend the rules for him.

  Fran glanced into the mirror, ran a hand through her hair, and tightened the belt of her robe. She winked at Charlie. “Armed for battle. I’ll be right back.”

  By now, Fran knew all the nurses, what shifts they worked. She made a beeline for the head nurse who’d demonstrated a soft spot for her son.

  “Andrea? Good news: Charlie’s got an appetite this morning. I think that’s an encouraging sign.”

  Built like an athlete, tall, lean, and wiry, Andrea had been working through stacks of reports, but she pushed them aside to share in Fran’s joy. “Oh, that’s great news.”

  “He’d like French toast, bacon, and eggs. And grape juice. Can he have grape juice and some milk, too?”

  “Let me make a couple calls, but I think I can make most of that happen. Let me warn you ahead of time, though: Don’t be surprised when he doesn’t eat more than a few small bites. That’s just typical. Eyes bigger … you know the drill.” She jotted some notes and asked, “Anything else?”

  Fran looked away, chewing on her lower lip. As much as she dreaded it, Andrea was the one to ask. “Since he’s so lucid. Obviously not in as much pain this morning. Should Charles and I … should we …?”

  “Yes. Now’s the time to talk about his leg. But let Charlie … how shall I put this?” She leaned back in her chair and tapped a pen against the armrest, pausing a moment. “Let Charlie give you the clues about how much he wants to know. Listen for what he says—and more importantly, doesn’t say. That’s how he’ll tell you how much he wants to hear.” Andrea tossed the pen onto the counter and then clasped her hands in front of her. “My guess is he’ll also tell you what he already knows. Which I’m bettin’ is quite a lot.”

  Fran nodded. “Thanks, Andrea.” She hurried back to Charlie’s room, wondering if maybe he’d drifted back to sleep. Hoping so? she asked herself. Coward. As she pushed the door open, however, she was surprised to hear the television.

  “Figured out the remote, huh? It’s great to see you more alert, Charlie. And before I forget—all the guys have been here. Grant, at least three different times. Riley and Erik and Bryce. Connor. Every single member of the team, actually. Everyone’s pulling for you, Charlie. And they miss you, a lot.”

  Charlie clicked off the television. Turned to his mom, his eyes instantly filling with tears.

  “Charlie. What is it?”

  He pushed his head back against the pillows. Shook his head.

  “Are you in pain, love? Should I call the nurse? What can I do?”

  He started to say something. Closed his mouth, lips pursed, and then began again. “Why, Mom? Why did they hafta cut off my leg?”

  He knew. She felt a stab to her heart once again. “Your leg broke because there was a tumor, Charlie. And it’s—”

  “It was cancer,” Charlie completed the sentence matter-of-factly. “But what exactly does that mean? Will I have to have other stuff done?”

  “Yes, Charlie. I’m so sorry.”

  “Like what?”

  “We don’t know for sure yet. But Dr. Chang thinks chemotherapy will wipe it out. The cancer.”

  “There’s more?”

  Fran swallowed, feeling the blood draining from her head. Get yourself together, she berated herself. Charlie needs you. She took a deep breath. “Yes, Charlie.”

  “It’s in my lungs, isn’t it?”

  Fran’s eyes flew wide open. “How did you—”

  “Been having trouble breathing.” He sighed. “Sometimes I couldn’t catch my breath when I was running.”

  “Charlie, why didn’t you tell your dad and me?”

  “I just thought it was … I don’t know. Allergies or something. Thought I needed to get in better shape.”

  Fran gently stroked his arm. Fought the pressure of tears pushing at the back of her eyes. “It’s in only one lung—that’s good news.”

  He was quiet and pensive a few moments. Fran waited patiently, allowing Charlie to set the agenda. “I, um … saw a show a while back. About a kid who got cancer. Lu … something?”

  “Leukemia?”

  “Yeah, that was it. She had to have chemo. Lost all her hair.”

  “Yes. That usually happens with chemotherapy.” Willed herself not to look at Charlie’s hair … his adorable curls.

  “She was really sick a lot too.”

  “Dad and I already asked about that. They promised to work really hard at moderating those side effects with some new drugs. Hopefully, you won’t have too many problems, and it’s even possible you won’t be sick at all, love.”

  “How will I …” his eyes instantly filling with tears, “will I be able to walk at all? Or will I be in a … wheelchair?”

  “Oh, Charlie, from what Dad and I hear, you’ll not only be walking, you could run someday.”

  His eyes narrowed, brows drawn together. “How’s that possible?”

  “Technology for prosthetic limbs is just … just incredible. Dr. Owens was telling us how amputees ride bikes and ski and play sports—all kinds of sports, Charlie. But it’s going to take time. You’ll need fittings. Therapy. We all have to be patient with this process … your healing.”

  Fran was already nodding affirmatively, anticipating Charlie’s question of “Soccer? You think I might be able to play soccer again?”

  “Possibly. Someday.” She studied his face, the wide open and vulnerable expression. The depth of hope that only a child can possess. And the faith to fuel that hope.

  A firm knock at the door interrupted them, plus Charles’s greeting of “Hey, how are my two favorite people in the whole world?” He leaned down to meet Fran’s upraised face with a kiss, reached out to ruffle Charlie’s hair. Taking in the scene before him, Charles commented, “You look much better today, son.” Giving Fran a quizzical look, he added, “You two … talking over some things, I take it?”

  Charlie was suddenly subdued, serious. “I knew, Dad.”

  Probing, Charles asked, “You knew what, son?”

  “I knew they were gonna cut off my leg.” He sounded older, far more mature than his years. “I’ve known the whole time.”

  Fran and Charles exchanged dubious looks. “The whole time? What do you mean, son?”

  Charlie frowned, avoided their searching faces by turning toward the window.

  “In the emergency room, after the tests. The way everyone reacted. Kind of tiptoeing around me. I figured it out then.”

  Charles fidgeted with the keys in his poc
ket. “Son, we’re going to get you the absolute best. The latest technology. We hear it’s astonishing what these prosthetic limbs will let you do.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was talking with Pastor Greg. He knows a guy who has a prosthetic leg—one that fits just above the knee like yours will. Runs in marathons, Charlie.” Charles moved closer so that he was right next to Charlie, inclining his head toward him. “As a matter of fact, this guy ran in the Chicago marathon last October. Plans to run in it again this fall.” He paused for effect—gauging Charlie’s reaction—and noted that Charlie hung on his every word. “Remember I was talking about us starting to jog together? How ’bout if we start training for the marathon? We’ll do it together. Deal?”

  Intuitively wary of Charles’s overwrought enthusiasm, Fran had been observing the give-and-take between the two. She no longer existed; father and son were so absorbed in each other it was as though they were the only two people in the world. Alert, defensive, and scrutinizing Charlie’s every reaction, Fran searched for any sign he was feeling overwhelmed. Her reflexes—physical and emotional—were timed to coordinate with the smallest hint of fear on Charlie’s part. When she caught a subtle shift, a slight widening of Charlie’s eyes and a quick intake of breath, Fran found she had to tightly clasp her hands together to keep from pushing Charles back.

  At the same time, Fran watched how Charles pulled Charlie into his fierce vortex, eyes glowing, intense, and focused on his target.

  “You can do it all, son. I know you can.” Charles had positioned both his hands on Charlie’s shoulders, looking him squarely in the eyes. “You’re going to work hard, aren’t you?”

  Tears slipped from Charlie’s eyes as fear and alarm blanketed his features. He appeared to face an inner battle, shifting his eyes downward and away from his dad’s unrelenting stare, finally resting his gaze on his elevated leg.

  Charles gripped Charlie’s arm, momentarily forgetting the IV only inches away. And then his face slowly morphed into a mirrored image of his son’s; panic moved across and possessed Charles’s own glistening eyes, and his mouth fell slack. He mechanically followed Charlie’s line of vision and stared at all that remained of his son’s leg.